


DAC-19c Character Sketch

by MishMishIsOverlord



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Work In Progress, beginning, character sketch, ideas, not finished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 16:16:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MishMishIsOverlord/pseuds/MishMishIsOverlord
Summary: Basic beginning character sketch for a creative piece I am starting to work on. Huge work in progress; don't have much to it as of yet.





	DAC-19c Character Sketch

It’s just another day.

He stands in the shower, motionless as the scalding water cascades down his body in waves, attempting to warm the unmoving cold within. 

He stands in the midst of utter chaos, though if anyone were around, they would be met with the unbearable weight of crushing silence. The colors are gray. No, actually, not gray. It’s like a severe form of color blindness, where all the colors blend and mold together to become one muddied, pasty mess of dull hues. Clutching his arms around his scarred torso, he submerges his head under the stream of water, letting it slick the dark hair against his face, covering his eyes, almost as if it were a hiding spot. 

Slender, graceful hands turn off the faucet, and he steps out to face the harsh cold air of the bathroom, relishing its ability to pull one’s mind back to a form of reality, away from the pain; however, this reprieve is limited. Stepping into the hall of the facility, he is met with a sudden, sharp burst of pain reverberating from his skull. It feels as if the maker himself has used a chisel to split open the inner parts of his mind. 

Pain. Unimaginable pain, slipping into his mind and body as easily as the cold air rushes freely around him. Distant laughter, glimpses of smiling faces, the warmth and security brought from strong arms and the voice of an angel, all but fleeting memories replaced with melancholy: muffled sounds of secret pain, hazel eyes glistening as dew on grass, walls crashing, tumbling, disintegrating to ash. Moments, dreadful, all in the past but not lost, never let go, only amplified by the passing of time. Pictures, such simple yet elegant works of art, used to capture an occurrence and keep it locked in time for eternity. Except, these are not pictures; they are memories, feelings, emotions, thoughts. All tainted with an underlying sense of gray, of despair, of helplessness and loss. He feels them, people from all around the world; he feels their everything. Crawling feverishly along the floor to his quarters, he begins to let out deep, anguished cries of pain as he fights the burning temptation to smash his head against the floor, scratch the demons out from his body. Finally, he reaches the computer, the switch next to it flipped up, seemingly mocking his pain and weakness. With what little energy he has left to muster up, he strikes out at the switch, slamming it down.

Silence. 

Actual, real, tangible silence envelopes him from the inside-out. Relief floods his system, and he opens his eyes to a world full of the most vibrant colors imaginable, his skin turning from sickly pale back to the usual olive color of his kind. He sighs, standing up briefly only to slump down into his desk chair. He glances over to his computer, where his daily progress report email remains open, untouched. “Nothing new to report,” he types before sending it in to the maker. His head falls into his hands, too heavy to hold up anymore that day. He doesn’t understand. He’s not supposed to experience this, these emotions, not like this. He’s a DAC-19c, the best research model out there, built to withstand the depressive thoughts of the entire world’s population for maker’s sake. His ability to feel these emotions and analyze them critically make him invaluable to the cause, one piece in curing the worldwide epidemic. His kind don’t get affected the way he does, feel, react the way he does. It’s only gotten worse, yet he can’t tell the maker for fear of deactivation. Shit. He shouldn’t even feel fear. Defective.  
He glances out the dingy window of his quarters, watching as yet another decrepit building collapses. Maybe tomorrow will be different, he’ll figure out what’s happening so he can focus on his life’s purpose. Until then…

It’s just another day.


End file.
